booze & broads & bullets
by Summerlea
Summary: Gritty AU. Killian Jones, rogue CIA agent, reluctantly agrees to a partnership with a mysterious blonde with a penchant for pole dancing, with her promise that his revenge against crime lord Mr. Gold will finally be fulfilled. What she'll gain from it, he has yet to find out. Eventual CaptainSwan
1. Chapter 1

A/N:  
Alright gang, I'll try to keep this simple.  
This is eventual CaptainSwan, but the main focus of the story isn't on the romance. There are mentions of MilahCaptain, and SwanNeal.

I am drawing HEAVILY from a few sources for the inspiration of this story - Kill Bill, Sin City &amp; Shoot Em Up to be specific references.  
This is my first attempt at writing something more on the gritty side, and less on the romantic side - as well as my first time writing any OUAT stories. Lemme know what you think. 

* * *

_He could feel the bench vice digging into his arm, exasperating the already shattered bones in his wrist, as he flailed wildly. The gun cracked, sharp and overwhelmingly loud in the small room.  
Milah didn't make a noise as she stumbled backwards, her hands lifting to clutch at her stomach where the crimson was already seeping into the material of her night gown.  
He heard a low strangled sobbing noise, and the realization that it was coming from his own mouth dawned on him. He'd sunk to the floor as well as he could with his arm still latched up on the table._  
_A few fat drops of blood fell to the garage floor with an artistic splatter, and Milah sunk with a quiet thump next to them._

_He could hear Gold, laughing, that high pitched maniacal laugh. He saw the gleam of light hit the barrel of the gun as it was pointed to face him next._

_Milah, crumpled on the floor, rolled her head to look at him. Unshed tears glistened in her brown eyes as she searched his face. He watched as the light slowly faded from them, her gaze becoming unfocused, then heard another crack from the gun._

"Milah!" Killian was suddenly sitting upright in his bed, bare chest heaving, his sheets twisted around his body. The panic grips him tightly as his eyes cast wildly around the room before the nightmare begins to wane and reality sets in again. Did he yell again this time, or was that just another part of the dream?  
He wipes a hand across his face shakily and squeezes his eyes shut, bidding the memories to die down.  
The pain is as sharp and fresh as it was four years ago. Like rubbing salt in the wound.

After a long moment, Killian untangles his legs and swings them over the edge of his shoddy twin sized bed. The rusting frame squeaks loudly in protest, which he ignores, too used to the sound. The terror from the memory has drained from him, and he's already set his mind on getting on with the day. Or, night, as it would seem.  
Killian's eyes flick from the alarm clock on his nightstand. 5pm already. He was turning into a vampire at this rate. Not that the time of day really held much importance on his life anymore.

Killian rises with another loud squeak of protest from his bed frame. He toes an empty bottle of rum out of his path as he crosses through the door and into the hallway. In the kitchen he's greeted with more empty bottles, an over-flowing ash tray and random debris that could once have been considered food.

Idly he picks up the discarded pack of cigarettes, plucks a fresh one from the container and lights it up. He blows smoke out through his nose and regards his shitty apartment without interest.  
_'Remember when you had penthouse suite?'_ His mind supplies helpfully, and he scoffs.  
"Long time ago," Killian mutters around the cigarette clenched between his lips. He'd gotten into the habit of talking to himself long ago, and it doesn't bother him much anymore. He enjoys being alone, and his thoughts are too dark to share with others anyway.

A quiet trilling noise breaks through the down-ward spiral of his thoughts, piercing the silence of his run down apartment. Killian takes another drag on his cigarette and sets out looking for his phone. He eventually uncovers it from a couch cushion on the floor, and he drags the phone up to peer the caller ID on the cracked screen.  
**ROYAL**  
Of course, there wouldn't be anyone else calling him on this number. No one else knew this number.

Killian mouths his cigarette to the side, unlocks his phone with a swipe of his thumb, and lifts the device to his ear. "Hello, Prince," He greets with false cheer.

**"O' Captain, my Captain,"** Comes the dry response, dripping with sarcasm.

Killian cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear, sinking down onto his battered two-seater sofa and begins lifting the bottles scattered across the coffee table up. One at a time, shaking them, inspecting them, until finally he finds one that's got some juice left. "What's new then?" He asks, voice still an anti-social mutter, as he screws the lid off of a bottle of warm gin and takes a swig. The grimace is almost audible.

**"I've been contacted personally with an under the table hit that I think you'd be interested in,"** David replies fluidly, his voice low. Killian wonders briefly where the other man is, hoping he isn't stupid enough to be phoning him from Headquarters. Everyone knows better than to make a personal call from inside of the CIA. He releases the thought, knowing David wouldn't slip up now, not with how long they'd been doing this.

Killian palms his phone and rolls his bare shoulder, trying to work out a forgotten kink. It seemed that the alcohol last night did not, indeed, fix all of his problems. "Remind me one day to ask how you've brilliantly set this system of communication up again, will you?"  
When David remains silent, Killian views that as is cue to focus in on the task at hand. "Is this a posted bounty then?"

**"Highly doubtful. The woman I spoke to said the contact wanted to meet with you directly regarding it. Said the rumor went that you had similar interests at heart."** Killian stiffens at the phrase and straightens up, forgetting about the cigarette trailing ash onto the floor. **"It's in regards to Gold."**

Killian remains silent for a beat longer then plucks what remains of his cigarette from his mouth and grinds it into the charred wood of his coffee table. "Right then," He starts, getting to his feet. He rips a pad of paper off of his fridge, and grasps a ballpoint pen with his good hand. "Do go on."

**"The contact will meet you tonight at 9," **David speaks, while Killian scribbles on the paper. **"At the Rose Red Cabaret, to discuss all the details in person. Her source didn't find it safe to relay anymore details over the phone."**

Killian drops the pen onto the counter and presses his arm against it to steady himself. "As ever, I am in your debt, Prince," He drawls, sounding a little bit more like his old self, even to his own ears. Evidently the prospect of finally tracking down Gold, of getting his vengeance, does much to cheer him up.

"**K-"** David wavers, cutting himself off before speaking. They both know that, despite David's efforts to keep a secure line, that there's still a chance they could be over heard and have refused to use their real names for some time. **"Captain,**" He revises, "**Don't charge into anything stupid."**

"Aye," Killian replies. "I've been waiting too long to bugger this up." 

* * *

He feels a surreal wave of giddiness roll over him as he pulls his rumbling antique Buick up to the curb in front of the venue. The neon lights flash spastically, the color being thrown across the dark street by the puddles of rain water reflecting it every which way. Huge neon red roses, and proclamations of 'Girls Girls Girls!' repeatedly dance across the signs.  
Killian squashes the feeling down as abruptly as it swims over him. This has not been the first time he had been close, or had a lead that seemed incredibly hopeful. He's been drudging through the gutters for the last four years, attempting to dig up dirt on Gold and the man's location, to no avail.  
Tonight feels different.

He cranks the heavy hand brake and the loud rumble of the car sputters to a stop, and he kills the engine. Killian steps out into the street and surveys the building for a moment.  
He can't say that he's never heard of the place before, but can't remember why the name had been significant. It's definitely in a seedier part of the city, located in the heart of the Projects (though admittedly this whole city has been getting worse and worse as the years drag by – influenced heavily by a certain crime lord), but he's admittedly not an active purveyor of strip clubs and cannot remember why Rose Red Cabaret would mean anything to him.  
Perhaps the ridiculous order of the name is what he recalls. Rose Red? Shouldn't it be Red Rose?

Killian's brow crinkles into a frown and he strolls up the steps to the large double black doors. They swing open easily and he walks into the establishment.  
It's not as ridiculously over the top as most strip clubs are in this city, he notes without much interest. The entire bar is one open area of hardwood floor. Booths are scattered around the perimeter, but the bar dominates the room for two obvious reasons. Firstly, the bar is a large wrap-around U shape, littered with stools and almost packed with patrons. The literal bar aspect of it is split in two by the stage catwalk, and two women bartenders stand on either side, taking care of their guests.  
Secondly, the stage drives into the heart of the bar. It rises up a foot or two from the actual barwood, and flairs backwards in a large 'T' formation, where the stage becomes larger and has props set up.  
Currently there's a half-naked brunette strutting across the stage, down to just her knickers and a pair of librarian black framed glasses. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, as if to pursue the librarian concept.

Killian loses interest in her quite quickly, instead choosing to scan the room for his supposed client.  
The small venue is crammed full of patrons and staff. He's seen three cocktail waitresses slide by with large trays filled with bright colored shots since he's arrived. Almost all of the tables are occupied, and only a few stools at the bar remains.

He moves to start towards the bar, to hopefully enquire with the woman behind it and gain some idea of where to look next. His route is suddenly blocked by another cocktail waitress, all side swept auburn hair and bright smiles. She trails a manicured finger down the sleeve of his sleeve, green eyes wide and taking in his appearance. "Hey there, sailor," She breathes.  
Evidently this is not the type of joint that gets many men in waist coats and ties sauntering in.

Killian jerks his shoulder back from the woman's touch. Normally he wasn't one to turn down an admiring woman, but he had business to attend to and wasn't in the mood. "Not today, love," He replies tersely.  
She sticks her lip out in an over-exaggerated pout and clutches her empty tray to her chest, but side steps to let him pass.

Continuing unheeded to the bar, Killian finds an empty space of wood in-between two mountain men and signals for the bartender. A short, cheery little thing approaches him, with a black bob pixie cut and bright blue eyes. For a moment he's caught off guard by her demeanor and appearance, thinking that the woman looks too sweet to be in such a place.  
But then he takes in the fact that she isn't wearing any clothing on underneath her form fitting black vest, and clicks the pieces together in his mind.

Killian leans against the counter, propping his bad hand up and absently covering the stub with his good one. The bartender does not miss this, and something flickers in those bright blue eyes as she looks over his hands. Her expression changes and she leans forward, smile widening.  
"Don't see too many men missing a hand these days, do you?" She enquires, voice friendly and just as cheerful as her general appearance.

Killian scowls and pulls his hand back out of sight. When he looks up to order a drink, and potentially pick the woman's brain for information, he's alarmed to realize she has vanished. He looks around, brow furrowing again, and spots her at the end of the bar, signaling another waitress, and then pointing to him.

Suddenly another woman appears at his side. "Bloody hell," Killian mutters to himself and turns around to face this one. "Ruby," The woman supplies helpfully, and smiles. The cheer is not present in her red lipped smile, something sharp and dangerous about the expression.  
Killian frowns. "Charmed, I'm sure," He bites out in response, always the proper gentlemen. His expression perks when he realizes she's holding a freshly poured pint for her, which he accepts without hesitation.

"I know who you're here to see," Ruby continues. Killian cocks an eyebrow at her as he tilts the dark beer to his lips.

"Do you now, love?" He replies, licking the foam from his upper lip. Her smile widens considerably, which seems a feat in itself, and she gestures for him to follow her.

Ruby dips into the crowd, dodging around people with effortless skill acquired by only waitresses and assassins. Luckily, Killian has experience with the latter and is able to follow her easily enough.  
The further away from the stage they get, the darker the bar becomes, and Killian notices that there are less packed tables back here.

Finally she leads him to the last booth in one of the far corners, and points a crimson painted nail to it. He can see a steady trail of smoke lazily circling up from it's occupant, who must be sitting with her back to him. Clearly, it's a woman, judging by the long pale leg and black heeled boot that juts out from the booth, jerking up and down nervously.

Killian murmurs his thanks to Ruby, and strides towards the booth. The music from the stage ends and a loud voice booms on a microphone, applauding 'Beauty' and welcoming the next dancer, 'Goldie' to the stage. Killian slides unceremoniously into the opposite seat at the booth, not waiting to do the awkward polite hover and greet scenario. He tucks his bad hand out of sight underneath the table, and fixes his eyes to the woman sitting across from him.  
Blonde Bombshell is the first phrase that jumps to mind. She's all pale, long limbs, and blown out beauty queen golden curls that fall down past her shoulders. Full, crimson painted lips, surprisingly little eye make up for a woman of her profession (some heavy black liner is all he can see) framing her intense eyes.  
The gaze is what catches him first. Judging by her appearance, he'd estimate that she's in her very early twenties, but her eyes are hardened in a way that he's seen in his own gritty reflection.

She's wearing a black corset styled top, with a red leather jacket thrown on over top and a yellow bandana is wrapped around her throat, the tip of it hanging low. He can't see below the table for obvious reasons, but can assume from spying her long bare leg earlier that she's presumably in a skirt of some sort.  
Something about her nose seems a bit off, but the shadows are too deep to see for sure.  
It's hard to gather much more about her appearance than that, from the shoddy lighting in their particular booth. Somehow he feels like she picked this spot for that exact reason.

The woman raises her eyebrows at him, as if to say 'are you done yet?', and squashes her cigarette in the ash-tray sitting in the middle of them.  
Killian clears his throat and straightens up. If the woman had given him any consideration, it had been a quick once over that he hadn't caught. She had a set, no nonsense sort of expression that looked very polished and practiced to him.

"So," He drawls, and looks pointedly at her. "Am I to assume you're the one who reached out to my man?"

That seemed to finally break her stoic expression. He watches her shoulder relax somewhat, and she leans forward for the pack of cigarettes sitting on the table. Busying herself with lighting up a fresh one, the blonde nods once.

Killian can't help but snort, propping his elbow up onto the table top, cupping his cold glass. "Talkative lass, aren't you?"

She frowns at him and blows a thin line of smoke upwards. "I've heard a lot about you and your services," She starts, her voice just as determined and straight forward as her appearance. "I wasn't expecting you to be so…."

"Handsome?" Killian offers, grinning wickedly at the blonde.

She frowns. "Irish," She finishes, lamely.

Killian lets out a curt laugh despite himself. "Well, what can I say?" He lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck.

The tension seems to have died down a little, thankfully, and the girl is relaxing further. She taps her heeled boot against the floor impatiently, and casts a glance at the tables around them. No one is paying them any attention. She returns her gaze to Killian.  
"I'll cut straight to the chase. I've heard of you, of what you do. I need your assistance."

"Well, anything the lady desires. For the right price," Killian drawls in that bored way of his.

The blonde purses her lips impatiently and leans forward, absent mindedly flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette. "Rumor has it," She continues, unabated. "That we have similar interests in a certain person."

Killian leans forward, expression sobering. "Pray tell, love," He murmurs, watching her with more interest.

She flicks her gaze away, bothered by the intensity of his eyes. "Gold," She says simply. She looks back, catching the way his eyes spark, how his grip has tightened on the pint of beer.  
"That's what I thought," She muses, lips curving upward ever so slightly. "Rumor has it that you've been trying for awhile to reach him, without any luck."

"_Bloody_ _m__onster_," Killian growls under his breath, his expression dark as he takes a long swig from his beer. He sets the glass down and goes about the business of digging his cigarettes and lighter out of the breast pocket of his vest. She watches with thinly veiled fascination as he goes about the slightly awkward process of lighting up with only one hand.

"I propose," The woman continues, "An alliance to take him down."

"I don't do partners," Killian mutters around the cigarette, giving the woman a pointed look.

She looks frustrated and swipes a hand at the curls falling into her face. The straight forward approach seems to drop to a more exasperated, quick tempered response. "Look, buddy-"

"_Buddy_." Killian repeats, looking affronted.

"-I have an in to Gold's hierarchy. If you're too stubborn to play ball, I can find another hitman to help me. You guys are a dime a dozen," She snaps out, and stubs her cigarette out with a forceful jab. She moves to stand, swiping her pack of cigarettes from the table.

Killian jumps to his feet as well. "Oi, hold on a tic." He moves to grab her wrist and the girl jerks it back as if she's been burned. His gaze drops south, despite the gravity of the conversation, and he can't help but notice he was wrong. Cut off short denim shorts, not a skirt. Damn.  
"Let's not be too hasty, lass. Sit down, let me procure a drink for you." He gestures to the booth, and then looks around to catch the eye of a closely roaming waitress.  
Ruby swings by with incredible speed, and he can't help but wonder if she had actually ever left, or if she was keeping a close eye on him throughout the whole exchange.

The blonde purses her lips but slides back into the booth. She nods to Ruby, who seems to understand that as some psychic womanly drink ordering procedure, and ducks off again.

"Right, so," Killian starts, flashing a lovely smile to the woman across from him. She doesn't seem nearly as affected by his charm as most women do, something he files away from inspection later. "What lovely name do you call yourself by, darling?"

She frowns for a moment, then drags her gaze up to his. In the dim light its hard to tell, but her eyes look green. "You can call me Swan."

Killian raises a brow. "Interesting moniker," He muses, then lifts his good hand to her across the table. "But if we're going that way, you can call me Captain. Seems to be what everyone's calling me these days."

Swan gives him that look again, that makes him feel less charming and more stupid, but raises her slim hand up to his to shake. Her grip is unexpectedly firm. "Alright, Cap'." She doesn't miss the way he scowls at the shortened version of his code name.  
"So you'll have to clue me in on the specifics in due time, but I'm quite curious about something," Killian starts. He pauses for dramatic effect, taking a drink of his pint and glancing to Ruby as the waitress swings by and deposits Swan's drink. The two women share a knowing look for a moment before Ruby is off again.  
"Tell me, love. If I'm being sated of my quest for revenge, then what benefit are you getting from this whole arrangement?"

Swan tenses up again. The movement is almost unnoticeable, but he catches the way her jaw clenches, the way her fists ball up. "Gold had something taken from me, something very precious, that can never be replaced," She replies, her voice hard.

Killian lifts his pint glass up in gesture, and it takes her a moment to catch the meaning behind it. She raises her own to clink with his. His expression is sober, though intrigued. "Aye, I'll drink to that."

She sparks up another cigarette (and he thought _he_ was bad when it came to chain smoking), and settles herself in. "So, let's get down to the nitty gritty."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Apologies for how long this took. I actually had the majority of it written, but I'm still playing around with the details of Emma's plan here, and wanted to make sure I didn't write something that would back me into a corner later on. 3**

* * *

The nitty gritty, as Swan puts it simply, turns out to be more than a simple hit. Not that Killian had assumed it would have been simple, this was Robert Gold that they were discussing, not some minor pawn. The plot was layered and Killian couldn't help being impressed at the detail the young woman had gone to before contacting him.

Swan has pulled the coaster out from under her bottle of beer, and is scrawling across it in quick, messy writing. "There is a detailed structure in taking down Gold," She explains, writing names that he can't easily read upside down, so he patiently waits for further explanation. "I'm sure as you already know, he doesn't come out into public much anymore, ever since his wife vanished four years ago."

Too busy making her list, Swan doesn't notice Killian's jaw clenching tight again.

"His personal home's location is not known by anyone in the city. I know, I've looked into it."

"As have I," Killian supplies quietly, lifting his pint to polish off the last of his beer. Before he can even set the glass down, Ruby has swept over and replaced it with a fresh one. "Lovely service here," He comments, watching the waitress sashay off to other tables.

Swan continues, glancing up to meet his eyes briefly but otherwise not acknowledging his words, "What I can offer you comes from my own connections. We need to tear down Gold's pillars, and he will fall." She scrawls one last name with an aggressive streak, and flips the coaster so he can read it.

Killian plucks it up, tilting it back to read it in the dim lighting. "Regina Mills, Zelena Thropp, George Spencer, Peter, Gold," He recites. He lets the coaster flop back onto the table and raises his eyebrows to look at her questioningly.

"His pillars," Swan repeats, looking at him very pointedly, waiting for the dots to connect. Killian scans the names again, and the realization dawns on his face. The majority of the names are familiar now, and he remembers reading them from a similar list many years ago, under the swinging dome light of an interrogation room.

Regina Mills was Gold's right hand woman. Anything that Gold did not want to dirty his hands with, Regina took care of. She was just as blood thirsty and ruthless as Gold was himself, if not worse at times. She had a cruel penchant for slaughtering women in particular, but was brilliant enough in the execution of her plans that she could never be directly connected with any of the crimes committed. She had an array of lackeys that she dispersed to carry out anything messy that she could be linked to, and was slippery to pin down.  
As the years from Milah's death passed by, Regina became a permanent attachment to Gold. If he was spotted out and about (which was extremely rare now) his number one body guard was always with him.

The name Zelena stood out as well. Killian purses his lips, drawing back into the memory of that day in his office, with Milah sobbing into a tissue as she exposed Gold's background.  
Zelena Thropp was another dangerous woman in his arsenal. If he remembers correct, she specialized in trafficking inside of the city, for various areas. She dealt with the drug and sex trade specifically, and was also very tricky and adept at keeping her nose clean in the legal sense. She'd vanished under ground during the past year, if he remembers David's office rumors correctly.

George Spencer was the city's crooked Mayor. He'd run unopposed for years now, and had his hands in the pocket of every cop in the city. He had a wealth of campaign funds that he threw at anything negative that came against him, most likely funded through Gold's resources.

Peter was not a familiar name. Killian voices the thought aloud, and Swan nods briefly.

"I believe he goes by the nickname Peter Pan?" She clarifies, grounding another spent cigarette into the ash tray between the two of them.

"Ah," Killian muses, recognizing the name. He's been dealing off and on with Pan's boys for the better part of a year now. They had risen up quietly in the shadows as one of the dominate controlling gangs in the city over the years, composed mostly of younger men and boys, who grew in notoriety for the ruthlessness of their crimes. Killan personally had dealt with their lot more than once, and he was well known and severely disliked. The year prior he had taken on a hit for Pan's right hand man by the name of Rufio, and it had exploded in a finale of conflict and bloodshed.  
"So the desired course of action with this unsavory lot? Infiltration? Hoping to find a way to weasel into Gold's group?"

She's lighting up another cigarette again, but her eyes go hard and sharp. "They need to fucking die," She hisses venomously, catching him by surprise.

"I thought Gold was the target?" Killian questions, straightening and looking at her in a more serious light. His eyes graze over her again, taking her in, trying to determine what could have happened in the past to require such an intense demand to be made.

Swan blows a line of smoke out and waves her hand through it dismissively. "He is, but these people need to pay for what they've done." _To me_, is left off, unspoken, but Killian knows without a doubt that this is deeply personal for her. Not that he could say that it wasn't personal for him, but at least he only had problems with one specific man, not five.

He realizes that pressing it further, despite his curiosity, will not achieve anything but upsetting his client. Killian lets it go for another day. "Five hits," He repeats, looking down at the ominous coaster. "What kind of monetary compensation are we offering?"

Swan frowns. "20 large."

Killian sputters on his beer. "You're having a laugh, aren't you, lass?" He demands, not humorously, and looks sharply at her. She has the sense to look somewhat guilty, but shakes her head. "Why on earth would you think I'd accept this?"

Swan sits forward, pressing her palms flat against the table top. "I'm not asking you to take on all five. Just one." Killian's expression becomes a mixture of dark confusion, so she continues quickly, "I can do the rest. I _am _doing the rest. I just need, ah, assistance. Someone with the same goal in mind to have my back. With your expertise and my in, we can get closer to these people than I could ever hope to achieve on my own."

Killian does not look convinced. He lifts a hand to run it through his tousled hair, and scoffs. What a waste of his goddamn time, he thinks darkly, eyes looking towards the exit.

"Gold is yours," Swan says sharply, which draws his attention back. "Your revenge, and 20, for assisting me and taking out Gold. We take down his pillars, and you take down Gold."

Killian raps the edge of the coaster against the table top, thinking. A long moment of silence passes. Finally he looks up to catch her gaze. Her face is set in a stony determined expression, but he can tell that she's nervous. That despite her earlier threat of going to someone else, he's her best bet.  
The chance to take down the monster who murdered his beloved Milah, is enough of a factor to sway his mind. Especially if the majority of the task is going to require him acting as a babysitter to the blonde sitting across from him.  
"Fine," Killian says finally. "But you'll do as I decide best, without argument. And we'll discuss your supposed 'in' at a later juncture. If I determine it's nothing worthwhile, I withhold the right to back out of this shoddy deal."

Swan nods, the faint traces of a smile curling her red lips upwards. "Absolutely."

Killian lets a grin break across his face. Despite how dark of a prospect this is, he feels lighter than he has in years. Finally a step in the right direction, a tangible path to the destruction of Robert Gold. "I propose that we drink to our newly minted partnership," He declares, lifting a hand and signaling Ruby over for another round. Swan gives him a funny smile, but doesn't protest.

* * *

He's lost count of how many rounds they've had at this point. While Killian is definitely not drunk, his tolerance is much too high for that to happen easily now, he's feeling very good about himself. He's visibly more relaxed, having loosened his tie awhile ago and is watching the current show on the stage with vague interest.

Swan also appears less wound up by now, as if she feels relief in setting their plan into motion as well. He can't tell how well the girl is holding her liquor, she has an unbelievable poker face, but things are definitely feeling less tense between the two of them. He's even managing to draw some banter out of the blonde.

Currently he's waggling his eyebrows at her, another charming grin spreading across his face. "Tell me, darling," He ignores the way her lips pull into a grimace at the pet name. "Are you a regular occurrence on that stage as well, or do you just dress to fit in with the other lovely ladies here?"

Swan rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know," She bites back, and he's briefly amused at how easy she appears to rile up. The amusement is short lived, as he can't help but notice past her shoulder there's a bit of a commotion starting up at the entrance.  
There's a group of three or four young men circled around the same red-head that had accosted him earlier in the night, their expressions hard.

"Feck," Killian mutters, and lifts his glass to down his pint. Swan is looking at him in confusion and slight shock, at the speed the liquid vanishes.  
Killian recognizes the taller of the men, and can immediately tell that the night is beginning to sour. The men are gesturing around the waitress, and he wishes that he could see her expression to see how the conversation is going.  
"You should bolt, love."

Swan screws up her face, and twists around in the booth to peek behind her to see what Killian is so concerned about. She halts when Killian jerks across the table to grab her wrist. "What are you, daft? Don't draw any attention." She pulls her wrist away from his grip and frowns.

The waitress at the entrance turns on her heel to scan their side of the bar, and Killian utters another colorful swear under his breath. She's pointing in their direction, and the men swarm past her, shoulders set.

"Is there a back entrance for this establishment?" Killian asks, voice low.  
Swan purses her lips, "Sort of. You could technically get out through maybe a… window if you were to go through that door," She points to a black door on the other side of the room, tucked into a corner behind the stage. "It takes you upstairs, to the uh, private rooms. There's an alley behind the building."

"Lovely." Killian pushes his pint glass to the middle of the table, out of his direct reach. He isn't looking at Swan, watching the men approaching their table. The tall man in the middle has made eye contact and a dark grin has spread across his ugly mug. "Wait a tic after I get up, then make a hasty exit. We will rendezvous in the alley way in approximately ten minutes."

Swan opens her mouth to protest and Killian shoots her a dark look. "No arguing, savvy? If your carefully detailed plan is to succeed, you do not need these men connecting you with me just yet. They're too familiar with me." She shuts her mouth and nods.

With that settled, Killian slides out of the booth. Instead of going for the exit, he strides head on towards the group of men already on their way. The tall man in the center seems amused by this, and they come to a halt a few tables down. "Long time, Jones," The man drawls.

Killian unbuttons the cuffs of his black button up and begins rolling the cuffs up, idly, not really looking the group over. "I see you've made bail again, Felix," he quips. "One of these days, your luck will run dry and the coppers will leave me to deal with sorting you out."

Felix's smile drifts into a scowl, and the men framing him, three young boys with mean faces, step closer. Killian is well aware of the silence that has started to settle on their particular area of the venue, and as he continues to roll his sleeve up, he takes a step and manages to cast a sideways glance back to his booth. Swan has vanished. _Good girl_, he thinks.

"Right then-" Killian starts, turning his attention back to the men in front of him, only to receive an abrupt sucker punch to the face. The connection hurts more than a regular fist, and he reels backwards, feeling pain blossom across his left eye. Felix is pulling back, chuckling, and the brass knuckles glint in the poor lighting.  
"Never were one for good form, eh, Felix?" Killian growls and moves in to the fray.

The scene explodes into immediate chaos. Felix stands still as one of his lackeys, a young man with a nasty scar jutting across his face, jumps in to tackle Killian head on, receiving a solid hook to the jaw that immediately drops him. The man spins into a nearby table, knocking it to the ground with a loud clatter.  
Killian flexes his hand, never enjoying the first punch. He's been in this scenario more times than he can count, but he's never quite ready for that initial jab.

The second man swings at him, and Killian dodges effortlessly to the left. He parries a punch to the man's side that stuns him only momentarily. He swings another blind jab at Killian, and while he side-steps this one Killian scoops an half empty drink from a table nearby and splashes it into the man's face, effectively blinding him for a moment. The strangled snarl that comes from him has Killian wondering what the hell he'd just thrown at him, but the thought is buried as Felix jabs at him with the brass knuckles again.  
Their little ring leader is much more skilled and faster than his counterparts, and Felix gets another hit in across Killian's jaw. Killian reels back, and stumbles into the scarred boy, who has struggled to pull himself up from the fallen table.  
Felix jabs forward again, and this time Killian manages to evade, swiping to the left. Felix stumbles forward with the force of his movement and the punch follows through to the dazed man standing behind Killian, and back down onto the floor Scarface goes.

The blinded man goes to charge Killian again, wiping the remnants of what appears to be a bloody mary from his face. Killian steps forward to meet him with a solid crack into the center of the man's face, and he drops like a sack.

The sound of a gun cocking makes Killian pause, and he throws a glance over his shoulder to see that Felix has unearthed a small pistol from his jacket. "What," Killian barks, "Those bloody brass monstrosities weren't enough of an unfair advantage?"

Felix doesn't get a chance to reply. With a loud crack, he drops to the floor, gun dropping. Ruby stands behind him with her cocktail tray held high, a smirk painted across her features.

Killian flips to face the remaining man who had been somehow spared from most of the fray, when more shouting from the entrance grabs his attention. More of the Lost Boys are spilling through the doorway. A gunshot rings out, cutting into the floor a good foot away from where Killian is standing.

"Oh hell no!" Ruby snarls and charges toward the group. Out of the corner of his eye, Killian can see that the cheerful bartender he had spoken to earlier is vaulting over the bar top with a sawed off shot gun in one hand. A few of the other women have dropped from the stage or their various drink slinging duties and have begun to close in on the group of men.

Another shot rings out, smashing a bottle too close to Killian for comfort. He decides that flight is the more fitting choice here, especially since his 10 minutes are probably almost to a close, and he uses the cover of the commotion at the front to dart across the venue.

He yanks open the door that Swan had pointed out to him earlier and finds himself in a stairwell. The volume from the bar is silenced somewhat as the door swings shut behind him.  
He vaults the steps two at a time and charges through the door at the top to find himself in a corridor. Doors line the walls on either side, firmly shut.

Killian's vision begins to blur with something hot and sticky, and he lifts his hand to rub impatiently at the blood starting to slide down his face. He tries a few doors, peeking in to discover them windowless.  
There is a sudden slam from the stairwell behind him, and the roar of the bar fight rises up again. He speeds down the hallway to a door at the very end, and discovers it locked.

"Bloody hell. Always has to be difficult," Killian snarls to himself, and braces himself on either side of the doorframe. He lifts a foot up and delivers a sharp kick that makes the door jump against its frame, surging against the lock holding it fast.  
A gun shot rings out and an accompanying hole rips into the wood near his head. Killian doesn't waste the time to look over his shoulder and delivers another firm kick. The door snaps forward on its hinges, and he charges into the room to a chorus of high pitched screams.

Killian casts a glance to the scene on the bed only briefly – two women with a man blind folded and bound – and grins cheerily at them. "My deepest apologies," he breathes out, waving a hand to the trio. The women continue to shriek, but Killian focuses instead on the open window on the far wall.

"There we go!" Not wasting any further time, he vaults himself outside. He drops down heavily onto the metal fire escape and into a torrent of rain. The water washes down his face, mixing with the blood and ruining his vision even more so.  
He rubs another hand to try and deal with that mess and squints below. Not a very far drop at all, very doable. He rushes the end of the landing, grasping the edge of the railing and flips himself down into the alley way below, narrowly landing on someone.

"What the fuck!?"  
He recognizes the startled cry as his newly minted partner, and squints into the darkness. "Hello again, darling," Killian greets with too much cheer, and promptly grabs Swan by the elbow and steers her down the alleyway towards the street.

Once they get out into the open, Swan seemingly catches sight of his bloodied face as they pass under streetlight as she drags him to a sudden halt. "Jesus," She hisses, grabbing his shoulder to twist him around for a better look. "Can you even see?"

Killian jerks her forward again, and her heels clack across the wet pavement as she stumbles. He removes his hand from her and begins pulling his car keys from his trouser pocket, casting a glance over his shoulder to see if they've picked up a tail yet. "Enough," He quips.  
His head snaps forward when Swan pulls the keys from his hand. He sputters a protest, eyebrows furrowing, which only proves to send a sharp jolt of pain to where he's apparently been cut above his eye.

"I'm sorry, did I give you the wrong impression here?"

Swan holds fast to the keys, swinging them out of his grip quickly. "You can't drive like this," She retorts, her tone sharp, with no room for argument. If there had been more time, Killian would have fought it out (because no one, _no one_ drove The Jolly but him) but he can hear the sound of feet pounding on the pavement behind them, shouts ringing out through the alley.

"You're bloody lucky," Killian growls, missing the satisfied smirk that Swan dons when she's won the argument. He swings her towards his Buick, red deep maroon paint job slickened by the rain, and drops her elbow when they're close enough for him to pull open the passenger side door.

Swan pauses outside to run a hand lovingly across the hood of the classic car, an appreciative look on her face. Then the moment snaps back into place and she quickly darts around the car and jumps in.  
The interior is strange for a car of this era, and obviously a custom job. The dash is entirely made of a deep wood finish, the seats finished with black leather.  
Swan fiddles with the keys for a moment, flipping the little metal anchor key chain out of the way and shoves them into the ignition. She doesn't hesitate in ripping a loud roar out of the engine, and knowingly pulls the old fashioned hand brake down and flips the lights on without needing to be directed to their locations.

Killian's wiping blood from his vision again, watching her with one eye squinted shut. "Done this before, have you?"

Swan grins in a wicked sort of way, cranking the wheel and rips out of the parking spot with a squeal of the tires. "Maybe once or twice," She throws back, almost playfully.

It's fairly evident as they drive that Swan has an unquenched love of speed. She rips through the streets, handling the large boat of a car with ease. Killian would be more impressed if she wasn't handling his baby, and finds himself holding his breath up every time she narrowly side-swipes another vehicle.  
If the Lost Boys had been following them, Swan lost them within moments. To be safe, they take a winding path throughout the Projects, until Killian declares that they must be in the clear and begins to give her directions.

Twenty minutes later and Swan's driving through an open gate around a fenced off piece of property. The engine of the Jolly rumbles loud and low, and the gravel cracks beneath the tires as Killian guides her around the back of a particular dilapidated warehouse. Windows are busted out and graffiti covers most of the available brick.

When she cuts the engine, Killian pulls the keys from the ignition and pops out of the vehicle, grumbling hotly under his breath about riding passenger in his own car. He presses his bloodied hand back to the gash on his face. He'd maintained pressure on it throughout the drive, but it was still weeping profusely. Head wounds always bled more, and neither the alcohol in his system nor the rain pouring down from the sky are helping his situation much.

Swan follows him to the far side of the building where Killian stops in front of a boarded up window. He frowns darkly at it, and steps backward to survey the building. "That wasn't boarded up last time," He mutters, more to himself than to her.

She watches him for a moment and can almost see the gears turning in his head. When it becomes evident that he doesn't have an immediate back up plan to get in, Swan rolls her eyes dramatically. "Let me."  
Digging into the little black bag she's had thrown over one shoulder, Swan approaches the rusted back door nearby.

"Well it's not like I have a key," Killian protests, sounding grumpy and staying firmly in place.

"Luckily for you, Cap'," Swan calls over her shoulder as she approaches the door, missing the grimace he makes at the butchering of his code name. "You have me."  
She slips something out of her purse and crouches down to peer into the lock of the door.

Killian lets out a snort and turns his back on her. Brushing blood out of his eye, he moves to dig into the pocket of his pants again for his cellphone. "Bloody David. No back up plan," He grumbles under his breath. He's attempting to unlock his phone (see, smearing blood all over the screen) when Swan's voice rings out triumphantly, "Got it!"

Killian turns on his heel and peers at the blonde, who is now standing with the door propped open. He slides the phone back into his pocket and walks to her. "It would appear that I have misjudged your worth, Swan."  
He slides past her through the doorway. Swan huffs and stands for a beat, holding the door. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?" She calls after him.

Killian's laugh answers her, and she follows him into the darkness. The metal door screeches across the floor and slams shut behind her.  
Her eyes only have to try adjusting to the darkness for a few seconds before suddenly the room lights up. Swan squints and casts a hand over her eyes at the sudden brightness. When her eyes have adjusted, she turns to look where Killian is striding forward. "There's power?" She questions, confused.

"Aye," Killian answers. His tone is less cheery now. The adrenaline rush has begun to wear off, and his face is starting to feel very tender and sore.

"How?" Swan asks, and turns to look around the room.

It's a very large open area, filled with various crap that one finds in an abandoned building. Trash and broken bottles, remnants of fires and makeshift beds, along with a scattering of equipment that once functioned with the building's original purpose.  
Killian is already across the room, his hand searching the top of another door frame. He pats along it until he finds a little key, and swings his grip down to unlock this door. Swan quickly strides to catch up with him as he steps through the doorway, dodging broken glass, her heels ringing sharp across the concrete.

He turns another light on in this room, and she's caught off guard again. This room looks livable, in a bare minimum sort of way. It's smaller than the previous area, but there's a little kitchenette space, and a long ratty looking sofa and a weathered coffee table with three legs and a stack of concrete bricks supporting it.  
Killian moves to another door tucked into the corner of the room and steps inside. He reappears moments later with little bag, which he drops onto the counter in the kitchenette. He begins to pull things out of it, and Swan strides closer to see medical gauze, antiseptics and a few other medical knick knacks.

"Here," Swan says abruptly and reaches out for a cloth that he's just pulled out from the bag. "Let me."  
Killian looks at her, ready to protest again. He's not in the habit of receiving help from people, and the first thing that immediately bubbles up is a bitter defense. He can take care of himself, one handed or not.  
But her expression isn't pity, though he can't tell directly what she's thinking by the mix of emotions on her face, and he finds himself caving.

Killian gestures in a vague 'do what you like' sort of way and sinks down onto a wooden stool at the edge of the kitchenette's counter top, and lifts a hand to tug at the knot in his tie, effectively un-doing it the rest of the way.

There's the sound of running water, which Swan makes another little surprised noise at, and then she's suddenly crouching over him.

Killian squeezes his eyes shut with a hiss as she carefully dabs the warm cloth against the cut on his forehead. When she mops up the worst of the blood, she instructs him to hold the cloth against the wound to ebb the flow of blood, and leans past him to dig through the medical supplies.  
He opens his eyes when Swan is hovering over him again, and is mutely surprised at how much more is revealed with the better lighting.

She's incredibly beautiful up close, her sharp green eyes narrowed in concentration as she pulls the cloth from his hand and inspects the wound on his forehead. If she notices his eyes on her, she ignores it.  
Incredibly beautiful, and incredibly scarred.  
Little scars slash and marr across the milky pale expanse of her face and jaw. They're old, he can tell just by looking at them, and there aren't so many of them that they're distracting or diminish her beauty in anyway. If anything, Killian can't help but feel like they enhance it, in a valiant Amazonian warrior sort of way.  
Her nose is crooked along the bridge, as if it had been broken badly and set by someone other than a doctor and thus never allowed to heal properly.  
His gaze dips futher downward and the scarring looks a bit worse along her neck (from what he can see around that large yellow bandana, which isn't much) and even scatters along her chest and cleavage.

"Eyes up here, buddy." Swan's tone is amused as she scolds him.

Killian pulls a half hearted grin to his lips, feeling the liquor and the landed punches a little too much suddenly. "Can't blame a man for looking," He retorts cheerfully. He bites out another hiss as Swan applies an unkind amount of pressure to the cut on his forehead. "Oi- watch it!"

He keeps his eyes on her heart shaped face as she cleans up the wound, watching her with interest. His first impression of the woman is slowly unraveling – she doesn't appear to be that blonde bombshell damsel in distress anymore. Whatever story is behind those scars, those bright eyes, he can't help but be curious about.

"Guy must've got you good," Swan muses, leaning back to look Killian in the eyes. "That needs to be stitched up, or you'll just keep bleeding out."

Killian frowns, which proves to be a bad idea as the pain in his face increases from the action. "Alas, I'm not privy on hospitals or doctors…" He trails off as she goes back for the bag of medical supplies, digging out some medical thread and a nasty looking needle.

Swan casts a look around the little room's contents, and frowns. "We need something to sterilize this with."

Killian can already tell that arguing with the woman about stitching up his face would be a lost cause, and sighs. He sits upright and digs a little black flask out from the inner pocket of his vest, and wiggles it to her meaningfully. He unscrews it with his thumb and finger, and gives her a pointed look when she goes to grab it.  
"To amateur surgery," He toasts bitterly and takes a swig from the flask. Swan takes it from him, pauses a beat, and then mimics his action. With a grimace she dashes some of the alcohol over the needle, and pulls a second stool over to perch in front of him.

"Doubt that rum makes the best anti-septic, but we'll give it a go," Swan mutters, and gently cups his jaw with her free hand, tilting his face downward for another magnificent view of her cleavage.  
_Well_, Killian muses, lips pursed. _There are worse views to be had while being stitched._

The initial first stitch catches him off guard and he swears low and colorful. Swan makes quick work of the stitching, moving with surprising speed and skill. She's finished before the ache in his face has time to grow.

Killian takes another deep pull from his flask, as Swan looks over her handiwork critically.

"Did they do that to you?" Killian asks vaguely.

Swan meets his eyes distractedly. "Do what?"

"That," Killian says with more purpose, gesturing with his flask. "I have to say, it gives you a grand amount of character, but those are not your typical run of the mill accidental scars."

Swan sits straighter and an intense transformation washes over her face. It's almost as if he can see the walls visibly going up; her mouth purses, her eyes harden and she drops eye contact from him. He's hit a sore spot, and Killian can immediately tell that the scarring is part of some nasty, huge story from her past.

Swan doesn't say anything. Killian watches her quietly, feeling a bit of his bite seep out of him. "I can see only too well that love has been scarce in your life, Swan." Her eyes snap to his at that comment, and while her expression remains neutral, he can see the confusion and shock in her emerald gaze.  
"That's why it's not just Gold, isn't it?"

"How-" Swan stutters, catches herself starting to spill and promptly shuts her mouth again.

Killian can't help the slightly cocky smile that pulls his lips up. "You're something of an open book, love."

Swan scoffs. She shakes her head, her golden curls swinging from side to side, and pushes to her feet. Effectively ending the one sided conversation, she begins to tidy up the mess with a bit too much aggression.

Killian leans forward, pulling his feet up to rest on the lower rung of his stool. His vision swims and the pain in his face throbs a dull staccato. He's unaware how much time passes before Swan's in front of him, shoving a little white pill into the palm of his hand.  
"Here," She offers, looking at him with some traces of sympathy. "It'll help with the pain."  
Killian nods, and chases the pill with a swig from his rum.

Swan helps him over to the couch, and the last thing he remembers is the blonde tucking a ratty pillow underneath his head and looking down at him with a strange expression. A flash of guilt in her bright eyes. Then everything swims into darkness.

When Killian awakes an unknown amount of time later, both Swan and his car keys are missing.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Just real quick here - like to remind everyone that HEY this is not a happily ever after story (or at least not yet). So these characters are not in good places necessarily. This chapter hopefully clears up a few of the huge vague, unanswered things going on in this story. Yes, I promise we will get into full details about Milah/Killian. Yes, I promise we will delve into Emma's past and go over why the hell she's so scarred. Patience, my lovelies.  
Also. Don't fucking do drugs.

-  
_  
"Milah Gold – wife of the infamous drug lord himself."  
Killian crossed his arms across his chest, and tilted his head to study the woman. She sat stiffly in her chair, hands propped up against the metal table directly in front of her, her gaze looking off into the corner of the room in a way that suggested she was lost in her thoughts. If she knew about the two way mirror (which of course she did – everyone knew about the two way mirrors now, thanks to television) she wasn't paying any attention to it.  
Her expression was carefully neutral, but Killian still determined that she was easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Long dark chocolate hair cascaded down her shoulders, parted expertly down the center to create large, subtle waves. Her skin was milky pale, her features sharp, and her outfit striking and well put together.  
"What'd she get picked up for?" Killian asked, finally pulling his gaze back to his partner.  
David frowned and flipped the paperwork on his clipboard over. "She came in on her own. She claims she's done with Gold, that she can't stand being married to a monster anymore. She says she was has information and that she wants to help." David's tone suggested doubt, and Killian couldn't blame him. It sounded unreal – gangsters or their wives didn't just walk into CIA headquarters and turn themselves in, not in the real world._

"Ready to go in?" David said, grabbing a notebook and a pen from their cluttered workspace. Killian gave a curt nod, and turned to exit the room. The two filed through the next door down the hall, leading into the other side of the interview room.  
Milah looked up as the two sharply dressed men settled down in chairs opposite her. Her gaze was just as striking, if not more so, than her general appearance. Her body language suggested anguish or fear, but her eyes were bold and intelligent. She caught Killian's gaze, and after a moment her lips quipped up into a small smile. He had to shake himself to focus, breaking the spell and looking down to their various paperwork.  
"We heard you had some tales to tell us, lass," He offered.

_Milah leaned forward, her pale wrists exposed to the ceiling, and clasped her hands together. She looked intently at Killian and he had no choice but to be swallowed up by her eyes again. "Yes," She started. "But you have to promise to protect me first."  
He tightened his grip on his paperwork, felt his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. "Always," Killian breathed, not missing a beat._

Killian awakes with a start, sitting up. His neck aches terribly from the bad angle he was forced to sleep at on the dirty little couch. His whole body in fact, hurts, especially his face. It feels very tender and for a moment his sleep addled brain has trouble remembering why. As the dream slips away from him and the details begin to blur, the previous night's events begin to refresh themselves.  
"Bloody Pan's boys," Killian growls to himself. He swings his legs around to plant firmly on the ground and lifts his hand to gingerly touch at the patch work job Swan did on his face. No blood, which is good, but it aches like a he'd been hit in the face with a 2x4.  
Once the woman enters his mind, Killian straightens and looks around for her in confusion. There's really only the one little couch in this room - which is too small for him to sleep on, nevermind two people- and the rest of the room is too small to allow any hiding places.  
He pulls himself to his feet and drags himself to the doorway leading back out to the main room. He peeks out the doorway, listening to the deafening silence. "Swan?" He calls out experimentally. There is no reply, just the shuffle of a rat on the other side of the warehouse.  
Killian lurches back to his little couch, head spinning from the injury and the drink. He needs a coffee, or a glass of whiskey to fix himself up. Preferably both. "Well that seems suspicious," He murmurs aloud.

He pats his vest pocket for his pack of cigarettes and pulls it out, discovering in dismay that he's slept ontop of it and squashed the pack into an odd pancake shape. He still manages to find a cigarette that isn't bent too terribly out of shape and ignites it.  
It's when he's returning the pack to his pocket that he freezes.  
Wait. _Waitwaitwait!_  
There is most definitely something missing from said pocket.

Killian jumps to his feet again and frantically pats the pockets of his slacks instead. He turns them inside out and discovers that both his wallet and his car keys are absolutely missing. "That little shite," He snarls, exhaling a trail of smoke violently into the air.  
He can feel the anger surge over him – the thought of someone stealing his precious Jolly is enough to send him into a fit. The wallet is less of a concern, there wasn't very much money in it to begin with.  
_Not a good start to a partnership_, he thinks acidly, taking another pull from his waning cigarette.  
It's then that he notices a little pill bottle sitting pointedly in the center of the coffee table. A little scrap of paper is held in place underneath the plastic capsule. Killian plucks it up, ignoring how the bottle tips over and rolls onto the ground.  
'_Sorry_' is scrawled in a neat, feminine style.

Killian looks at it for a long moment, then suddenly laughs and leans down to the retrieve the fallen bottle. It's not full, not even a third of the way, but there's definitely a few high level prescription pain killers rattling around in there. He shakes them onto the table top and eyes the pills, making sure that they aren't any more of those white little devils Swan gave him last night. He recognizes the print on the pill to be legitimate and dry swallows them.  
The anger is subsiding, which is a surprise in itself. Typically Killian didn't let people double cross him like this and survive, especially when his car was involved, but some nagging feeling is telling him that this is different. Swan has spunk, which he admires in some twisted sort of way. That should strike him as a red flag, that he's oddly okay with this, but he doesn't allow the thought to grow.

He fishes his phone out of his back pocket, and is thankful that she didn't decide to steal that as well. Replacing it would've been a pain in the arse. He thumbs through his contacts until he finds '**PRINCE**' and selects it. He brings the phone to his ear and listens to it ring. After a long moment, the other line picks up.

"'Lo," Killan offers in greeting.

"**Everything okay?"** David asks from the other side, always the concerned big brother.

Killian can't help but let out a chuckle, and lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck. "Well, that's a yes and a no." David remains silent, patiently waiting for further explanation. "It appears our client is legitimate, but also has some trust issues. She's maybe made off my vehicle."

**"She robbed you?!"** David sputters, shocked. "**How are you taking this so well? You don't even sound upset!"**

Killian shrugs to the empty room, habitually even though David isn't present to actually witness the action. "She'll be back. In the meantime, my wallet's missing and I believe it's your turn to buy breakfast anyways."

"**We are discussing this further,"** David says, all business. "**Meet you around 12 then? Probably going to take you awhile to get into town."**

"Where there's a will, there's a way," Killian replies cheerily. With another few words exchanged, he hangs the phone up and slips it back into his pocket.

Thirty minutes later and he's trotting along the shoulder of the highway, loose tie shoved in the back pocket of his slacks. Another cigarette is clasped between his lips as he makes his way down the asphalt. The morning is still early and mercifully cool, thanks partly to the rain from the night prior. Walking any later in the day in the summer time in this city would be hell, so Killian is thankful.  
Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't hear the Cadillac tearing down the road until it's practically on his heels. He jumps back to the railed edge of the road as the big blue beast roars past him at a speed obviously way over the limit.  
"Oi, watch it!" Killian snarls, lifting his good hand to flip the bird to the departing vehicle when suddenly the driver slams on the brakes. The Cadillac fish tails, screeching and trailing black tire marks as it swings into the shoulder ahead of Killian.

He freezes as the vehicle shrieks to a stop, concerned about who could have been driving. Either the obscene gesture pissed the driver off enough to cause him to stop, or he recognizes Killian – neither of which will have a positive outcome.  
The driver flips around in the seat, which Killian can see clearly with the top of the convertible removed, and begins to wave back at Killian.

"I knew I recognize that one handed son of a bitch!" The Driver cries, and rips the dark sunglasses from his face.  
Jefferson – long time oddball acquaintance of Killian.  
The man was clearly insane on some level, or at the very least incredibly bi-polar. He self medicated with whatever he could get his hands on, which did not improve the situation of his mental state in the slightest – especially considering that Jefferson was one of the high rolling drug connections in the city and had access to anything his heart desired.  
He was a bit of a wild card, with how unstable he was. Some days he was a friend and a great help, and other days he was a raving lunatic with only his own agenda at mind. Rumor was that he was forced into the drug industry by Gold's right hand woman, Regina Mills, who had kidnapped Jefferson's young daughter a few years ago and held the girl over his head like a biscuit to a dog. He'd started off as a low-key pot dealer back in the day, trying to make ends meet after his wife had passed away and left the care of their daughter entirely to himself. Regina had wanted him to expand his inventory, and when Jefferson had ignored her requests, little Grace had vanished from school one day and never returned.

Knowing this story, and not doubting its truth, Killian didn't blame the guy for being such a mess. If someone had been holding Milah alive over him, black mailing him with her life, he'd probably be a in a similar state. Or long dead from charging into a bad situation.  
Killian picks up his pace to quickly meet up with the idling car. He reaches the passenger side and leans against the vehicle, flicks his cigarette to the ground and looks at Jefferson warily. Trying to size him up, see what mood the other man is in today.

Jefferson's gaze is strong and intelligent today, which means that if he's high on something it's at least something that he can function on – like coke or herion. Not like mescaline or acid, which Jefferson frequently dabbled with and ended up escalating his crazier moods into violent frenzies.  
Jefferson waves a hand to the empty passenger seat. "Well, what are you waiting for? Or would you prefer to walk back into the city?" Not needing to be told twice, Killian hauls himself up and expertly vaults over the passenger side door, landing into the leather seat. As soon as he makes contact with the interior, Jefferson is shifting gears and tearing forward with another high pitched squeal of rubber grinding asphalt. Today was definitely a cocaine sort of day for him.

"So what the hell are you doing all the way out here?" Jefferson yells over the roar of the engine, taking the corners too sharply. Killian clutches support in the form of the passenger door, watching the road instead of looking to his strange friend.  
"Business," He yells back, leaning closer to be heard.

Jefferson laughs, looking him over and taking in the black tie formal wear Killian's still clothed in. "Well, you've definitely got the business look going on, though it looks like you might've had a bit too much fun last night." He's commenting on Killian's eye, he's sure. He hasn't had a chance to see his own reflection yet, but he can tell from how sore his face that he probably has a pretty bad shiner.

Killian leans forward and grasps the rear view mirror, twisting it to look at his reflection. He looks battered to shit, and he even lets out a little laugh. Those brass knuckles really did do a number on him. His left eye is swollen and black – the bruising already swelling pretty bad for a black eye, the purple blossoming over his nose and across his brow. The cut on his forehead is sticky with dried blood and looks haggard with the amateur stitch job, the white surgical thread sticking out like a sore thumb on his dark brow. His jaw thankfully just hurts, with the very faintest hint of bruising.  
Killian readjusts the mirror and leans back in his seat. "Fun is one word for it."

"Bet that hurts like hell," Jefferson comments, waving a hand to his friend's face. "Looks like It hurts like hell. Oh! I have just the thing for that!"  
The car swerves as Jefferson suddenly leans backward to reach into the back seat, one hand on the wheel, not paying any attention to the road. The huge car shudders across both lanes, and Killian has to restrain himself from leaning over and grabbing the wheel. Thankfully, they're too far out in the city's outskirts, too early in the morning for there to be traffic on the roads.

"Oi!" Killian protests, slapping Jefferson on the shoulder. "Watch the road, you Eejit!"

Jefferson pulls back with a bag clasped in his hand, and is laughing again. His pupils are dilated and he looks too cheerful as he swings the Cadillac back into the proper lane. "Oh calm down," Jefferson chides, and tosses the bag into Killian's lap. "Pop a couple of those little blue guys and you'll be in paradise."

Killian unzips the bag and an array of plastic baggies with various pills spill out onto his lap. He shuffles through the contents until he finds the aforementioned little blue pills, and stuffs the other pills back into the bag. He unzips the plastic bag and pulls a pill out to look at it. Little blue perocets.  
He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs and knocks back three of the little guys. He goes to stuff the baggie back into the bag with the rest of the pills, when Jefferson protests. "Look, just take those. On me. You look like you could use them." Killian doesn't argue, slipping the bag of pills into the pocket of his slacks.

At his request, Jefferson drives them past the Rose Red Cabaret. It's not open of course, it's way too early for an establishment like that to be operating, but Killian just wants to see if he can spot his precious Jolly parked anywhere nearby. They roll down the alleyway behind the building with no luck, and Killian lets out a soft swear.  
Jefferson looks amused, as ever. Taking the opportunity of the parking lot, he pulls a little vial from his inner jacket pocket and takes another bump of white powder off the top of his hand. Sniffing, Jefferson rubs his nose and gestures vaguely at the quiet building. "You ever come to this place on the weekend?"

Killian purses his lips and looks across the street, scanning the parked cars even though he knows, of course, Swan wouldn't be stupid enough to park his baby anywhere near this place. "No," He replies, distracted.

"Hoo-boy," Jefferson laughs, ripping out of the parking lot and down the street. "You are missing out!"

Jefferson drops him off in the heart of the city, on the corner of 98th and Couch. He leaves with another shriek of his tires, and the blue Cadillac veers around the corner and vanishes. Killian walks another ten blocks to his neighborhood, taking care to keep an eye on the people around him incase anyone looks suspicious or like a tail. He's been very successful at keeping his living quarters a secret over the last few years – he usually hops around from place to place every few months or weeks, depending on how he's feeling. He's frequently used old safehouses that the CIA had established back in the day and forgotten about (thanks to David's help), or stayed in run down apartments on a weekly basis. Landlords in this area of the city were just thankful for the extra cash and didn't care much about who they were renting to.  
Killian's current place was another safe house – much like the warehouse he'd taken Swan to the night prior – that David had hooked up with spotty electricity and water that only worked when it felt like it.

His place is located above a little family run Greek restaurant, and his surroundings frequently stink of tzatiki and cooked lamb. He dips into the alleyway behind the building and scales the fire-escape to let himself in through a back window.

Half an hour later, Killian is cleaned up and dressed in more street appropriate clothes. Well fitting dark jeans and a blue plaid button up, with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows help him blend in to the city significantly moreso than his two piece button up ensemble from the night before. He's even retrieved the fake plastic hand for his stump, though he's always been at odds if it actually makes the lost limb stick out even more obviously.

He's already selected a booth in the meeting point of choice – a little 24 hour diner called the Pig N Puddin' – which is close to the center of the city, both a fair distance from his run down apartment and close enough for David to get to easily. They always sit in the same booth, and Killian isn't one to break tradition easily.  
He swipes his hand through his damp hair, and leans forward against the table to wait. His face doesn't hurt anymore – in fact his entire body feels more or less very numb, which is a welcome change from the aches he had earlier in the morning. Those little blue pills did the trick after all, and he's grateful for Jefferson insisting that he take some with him.

The bell above the door jingles when David enters. He's about the same age as Killian, but looks nothing alike. He's well built, tall, with fair brown hair that is slicked to one side. His entire presence, especially the way he carries himself, is very regal – which is how Killian stuck the nickname 'Prince' on his friend. Women always called him charming, and Killian had escalated that to 'Prince Charming' back in the days of their partnership at the CIA.  
David doesn't hesitate and heads straight to their booth, sliding into the seat opposite of Killian. It's nice to see him in the flesh – they don't often get together anymore. It borders on a risk that neither of them want to take.  
David's still trudging away at his desk job at the CIA, pushing papers to try and make some headway in a city drowning in crime. Killian on the other hand, is bordering on the CIA's shit list. David has done a good job at covering his friend's movements, or at least removing his identity from the reports so no one has the opportunity to link Killian to these adventures.  
This made meeting in person is tricky. In the off chance that someone recognized either of them and connected the dots there, it could be disastrous.  
For the most part, they were lucky. They only really met up at this one restaurant, which was in such a shady area of the city that they weren't likely to bump into any suits from the CIA. When Killian had 'retired' from the bureau, after he bolted from the hospital before being properly discharged, he had made a paper trail pointing anyone who was looking towards him leaving town. The rumor mill in their division had caught onto that bait, and the gossip was that Killian had been too wrecked after Milah's death and went to have a fresh start in New York City.  
Since then he'd stayed mostly under the radar, getting by performing hits and tracking down bounties. David steered him in the right direction with those, thanks to the intelligence at his disposal, and acted as mediator between Killian and most of his clients. It worked – though both of them weren't stupid enough to think that this luck would continue forever. Killian had an end goal for his revenge against Gold, and the mobster was so hidden behind laws and regulations that the CIA couldn't touch him. David was usually a stickler for rules, but with the murder of his mother years prior that couldn't be legally linked to Gold's goons, he'd also wanted some form of justice. This was the only option.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," David remarks after the waitress has filled their coffee cups and wandered off to her other customers. "Even if your face isn't as pretty as I remember."

Killian scoffs, and lifts a hand to touch his black eye. It doesn't hurt at all, and David's eyebrow raises as he watches Killian experimentally poke at it. Killian smiles brightly at him and leans forward. "I had a run in with Jefferson this morning."

"Ah," David laughs. "That explains that glaze in your eyes."

The waitress comes back around to take their orders. The men don't even look at their menus, handing them over to her out-stretched hands. They order the same thing every single time that they come here, and the waitress doesn't even need to write it down. When she leaves, David focuses his attention back on his friend.

"So," He starts, an amused smile creeping across his face. "Girl stole your car?"

Killian chuckles despite it not being funny – and it's not, really. He should be angry, seriously, but he can't find the strength to feel annoyed. "She'll be back," He muses against his coffee cup. "She needs me – she knows that. She'll be back."

David sips his coffee, watching Killian with a critical look. After a moment, he seems to accept that answer, or at least has decided it's not worth the fight to go against Killian's instincts.  
"Is she after the Croc then?"

'The Croc' was a specific nickname for Robert Gold. This was due to the drug that he had brought into the city a few years ago (which is when things really started to get out of hand). It was a strain of a new opium based drug that had unearthed in Russia a few years prior. They referred to it in the DEA as the 'super drug' – it was a highly addictive opiate that had a nasty side effect of eating away at flesh of long term users.  
Short term users would still receive a gangrene discoloration on the flesh that looked striking like scales, after the first few injections of the drug. They coined the drug 'Krokodil' and the name had transferred to Robert Gold as well.

Killian recounts the story in a vague, brief way. He doesn't use very many direct names, in the off chance that someone might be listening, but David is sharp and picks up on what he isn't directly saying. When he's finished, David nods.  
"Right so. Which one first? Mills will be difficult to touch, she's so high up. You'll have to dig to find a way to work your way to her. Thropp will be difficult too, since she's all but vanished. There haven't been any sightings or reports with her for a few months now."

Killian frowns, looking thoughtfully at his half full coffee cup. "Pan will have to be direct. He's easy to locate if you're looking in the right places, but that'll be a hell of a fight to prepare for…"

"So the missus has been ragging on me to paint the spare bedroom again," David breaks in suddenly, casually. Killian looks up in time to see their waitress approach the table with the plates of food and a fresh pot of coffee skillfully balanced in her arms.

"Again?" Killian replies with a chuckle, picking up on David's cue to change the subject. "Didn't she just have you paint it a few months ago?"

David's twisting at the gold wedding band on his finger with a tad too much agitation. "Yeah well, you know women."  
Their waitress settles their food down, refills their coffee, and trots off after they verify that they don't require anything else.

Killian leans forward, voice low, "I don't know why you intend on marrying that one still. Only six months, you give her a ring and she turns into a right cunt."

David looks up at him sharply, frowning. "Don't be crass. Just because she doesn't fit up to some unrealistic expectation that society has on wives doesn't mean she's terrible."

Killan snorts. "No, mate, but there is such a thing as a middle ground." When David ignores him in favor of shoveling food into his face, Killian continues. "I think this is just some attempt to get that little spit fire out of your head."

David looks indignant. "Not this again!"

"Oi! I can't help that you were heads over heels for the little lass-"

"She was a _pick pocket-!_"

"-Whom you were enamoured with!"

"She stole my wallet, Killian," David huffs, signalling the end of the argument. "And vanished back into the city without a trace for the last six months. She was just a girl in a bar."

Killian waggles his eyebrows, surprised that the motion doesn't hurt his face more. If he sits and thinks about the way his body feels for too long though, he feels a little like he's floating in his seat – which he attributes to the mass amount of pain killers he'd popped earlier in the day. He focuses again on David, who is determinedly trying to eat without discussing this further. "For a pick pocket, she certainly took her time with you. Three hours at a bar before she swiped your wallet? And the way you looked at her."

"She had a cute smile, and that pixie cut…" David admits. He catches himself and gives himself a little shake of the head, frown deepening. "But she stole my wallet, and I'm marrying Kathryn. End of story. Don't we have a case to focus on?" 

* * *

"Emma, you _stole_ his car!? What were you thinking!?"

Emma Swan lets out an audible groan and flops her head down against the island counter-top. Her voice is muffled against the granite, "I don't know! I just freaked." She pulls her head up, blonde curls cascading into her face. She brushes them impatiently away and risks a glance to the woman standing on the other side of the island counter. "He-he got inside my head, it was like he could see inside me. It rattled me. I just…bailed."

Mary Margaret was fixing her with a pointed look from across the island. In that moment she looks more like a disappointed mother than a cherished friend, and Emma sheepishly drops her gaze. "It just felt like I needed to leave him there before he could leave me there," She tries to explain, but knows that her excuse sounds weak, even to her.

Mary Margaret tuts and wraps her hands around the white coffee cup steaming in front of her. "You don't think he'd actually leave you in the middle of nowhere, do you?"

Emma lifts her hands to cover her face and lets out a groan. "No- I mean, maybe. I don't know!"

The kitchen remains silent, except for the soft ticking of the wooden coo-coo clock on the far wall. Finally Emma moves, running her hands through her hair in an effort to calm her nerves. "He's just not what I was expecting. He got inside my head." She pauses, licking her lips, green eyes darting up to Mary Margaret's sympathetic face. "I need him though. The smug bastard knows it, too. He's the only one that can carry this out."

Mary Margaret nods in affirmation. She sets her coffee cup down and pulls the edges of her white cardigan tighter around herself. Her dark pixie cut hair is hanging choppy across her face, still damp from an earlier shower and un-styled. Her bright blue eyes are looking at Emma critically, and the motherly pretense is gone. "Yes, he is. Which means you need to make this right, Emma. We didn't spend this long working towards this goal for you to mess things up like this," She chides. Emma knows she's right, and nods, brow crinkled in thought.

"Miss Mary White?"  
Both women look up at the sound of a new voice. Ruby is hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, her long fingers splayed across either side of the frame, crimson nails clicking impatiently against the wood. "Can I borrow you for a sec?" She asks, nodding her head back the way she came.  
Mary Margaret casts a glance to Emma, who shrugs, before following Ruby out of the room.

Emma picks at the long sleeves of her black and white striped sweater, pulling at a loose thread. Mary is right – of course she's right. It's Emma's own revenge that she's working towards, but Mary and the other women worked hard to help her reach this point. It took four years of discipline, of hard work and guidance from all the women in this area of the city. They were tough (they had to be – they ran the Rose Red Cabaret in one of the rougher parts of the city, alone without the help of mob pressure or the police) and dangerous, and Emma had learned so much from every one of them.  
It had taken sacrifice on Mary Margaret's part as well – staying out of Gold's pocket was a dangerous game, but Emma had remained steadfast on that matter. All the clubs were owned by Gold in the city, with theirs being the only exception. The women had made a point to show that they were not to be fucked with, though that would only last for so much longer before Gold sent more of his minions calling on them. Pan's Boys the other night had been an anomaly, but Emma was sure the word would get back to Gold anyway.  
This wasn't _just_ her battle anymore. She had to succeed for all of the girls here.

Emma bites her bottom lip, and pulls herself from her thoughts, her eyes focusing on the leather men's wallet sitting next to her own coffee cup. Really, she hadn't needed the Captain's money. It was more of a bad habit than anything, though she did end up spending twenty on gas and smokes on her way into town.  
She plucks the wallet up and flips it open. There's no personal effects whatsoever inside. No ID, no driver's license. She has no choice but to continue to refer to her 'partner' as that stupid Captain nickname that he gave her.  
"Captain," Emma scoffs under her breath, flipping the wallet open and peering inside. There's a surprising amount of money stuffed inside the pig skin, and her thumb trails across the crinkled bills. She spies a smaller piece of paper that's carefully folded up and slid in a partition of the wallet. Emma extracts it and unfolds the paper, revealing a small snapshot photograph of a striking older woman with beautiful brown eyes and dark wavy hair. The fold in the photo is heavily worn, and Emma wonders how many times 'Captain' pulls this out to look at, and who exactly this woman _is_ anyway.

"Emma!"

The woman jolts out of her thoughts as her name is suddenly called from the hallway. Emma hastily stuffs the photo back into the wallet, which she shoves in the back pocket of her cut off shorts, and quickly makes her way out into the hallway.  
Mary Maragret's suite is on the top floor of the Rose Red Cabaret – the third floor, which has a separate flight of stairs for an entrance away from nosey customers. Emma follows the voices into the stair well, and cranes her head over the railing to peer down at the three women standing at the bottom of the stairs.  
Mary Maraget and Ruby are joined by a third brunette woman , small and petite, with loosely curled auburn hair and a pair of black framed glasses balancing delicately on the bridge of her nose. She has a look of quiet triumphant spread across her face.  
"I've got in!" The woman announces when she spies Emma looking down at them.  
Emma quickly trots down the stairs, swinging around to join the trio.

"I've officially been selected to be one of Gold's Girls. There's our foot in the door that we were waiting for!"

Emma can't help the grin that breaks out across her face, and grasps the smaller woman by the shoulders with a happy squeal. "That's great, Lacey!"  
Lacey had been working under the radar for the last two months to try and gain entrance to Gold's private quarters. There was a network of carefully selected prostitutes that could make the rank, though it was difficult to gain the attention of Gold's selectors. Lacey had been dancing at another bar on the other side of the city, under a false name, and schmoozing up to Gold's goons that came in.  
Being selected was supposed to be a huge honor, but for Emma's plans of revenge, it was necessary. No one was exactly certain where Gold even stayed nowadays, and this was an inside route to cracking that code.

"Apparently there's this big party that they throw over this, and at that they've got the selection process to ween down to only 2 women. It's supposed to be next weekend, they'll be contacting 'Belle' directly with the details," Lacey explains, smiling.

Mary Maragret turns her attention to Emma. "Emma, this means you need to fix things with your new partner," She says, seriously. "We cannot have things fuck up with this starting to fall into place."

Emma frowns. "Yeah, I will. I've just got to find the guy first. Something tells me he's the kind of person who won't be found unless he wants to be."

Mary Maragret breaks into a smile, clapping her hands together. "I bet he's already looking for you Emma. You have something of his, right?"

* * *

**A/N:**  
Fun fact! Krokodil IS a real goddamn drug - how scary is that?  
How do we feel about the new additions here? Jefferson? David's lovely pick pocket that stole his heart and his wallet? (GEE I WONDER WHO DAT IS.)  
Lemme know how you feel!  
3


End file.
